


In the mood to be scared

by siegeofangels



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Adrenaline Junkies, Anal Sex, M/M, unrealistically amazing first times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-26 08:34:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15659610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siegeofangels/pseuds/siegeofangels
Summary: “I'm not such a pussy I couldn't take it up the ass.”





	In the mood to be scared

Brad can act like a normal human when he's out in the world, even when he's surrounded by other marines on base, but once he’s around Ray or Poke or Pappy and gets even one single beer into him, it's like some kind of switch flips and he shifts into that shit-talking, one-upping mode, and nobody is safe. Not even himself. 

And it's especially dangerous now, at this bar, way past one beer in. 

It's been a long week. Brad hasn't had a chance to take his bike out, hasn't seen ocean water close over his head, hasn't done anything that _scares_ him. He needs it, he craves that hot-cold adrenaline dump down his brainstem. Which is why it's a bad, bad idea to be sitting here at this table, energy in his veins. 

Fick looks--good, the kind of good that makes Brad satisfied, makes something settle deep inside. Fick isn’t rangy and sand-blown like he was when they got back to the States; now he fills out his jeans and t-shirt like he hasn't been subsisting on coffee and sheer will. 

And he looks-- _happy_ , he has the bright eyes of someone who's signed his last bullshit form, and he's laughing at Ray the way he never did when he was in command. 

“You can't tell me,” Ray says, gesturing with his beer, “that taking it up the ass makes me any less of a man. Dude, I have seen the light, and it is fucking _pegging_.” 

“That's fucking gay,” someone mutters. 

Ray is still going on. “Blew my fucking mind, and I will _still_ take down any motherfucker. Try me, America!” That last sentence almost comes out in a howl.

Fick was laughing so hard his head is almost on the table. He straightens up then and salutes Ray with his beer. “To the hardest bastards I've ever known.” 

“See, the--Fick agrees with me, right?” 

Fick lifts his bottle to his mouth and says, “I did go to Dartmouth.” 

Ray cracks the fuck up. 

Brad--Brad blinks, only blinks, Iceman-cool, but Fick’s eyes are on him, and whatever he sees in Brad’s face makes his grin turn into a smirk. 

Retreat. “Fucking degenerates,” he says. “I need a smoke.” 

Outside, he lights up. The image of Fick on his hands and knees comes into his mind, unbidden, and with it a rush of _fuck, no, danger_. Brad thunks his head back against the brick and closes his eyes. He shouldn't think about Fick like that. He shouldn't picture himself in Fick’s place.

He wonders if it hurts. 

He hears the footsteps, recognizes them, leaves his eyes closed until Fick plucks the cigarette from his fingers. 

Fick takes a drag, almost delicately: Brad tracks the cigarette to his lips and watches him inhale and purse his lips to blow the smoke away from where they’re standing, too close. Fick’s hands are slender, capable-looking. He scares Brad a little like this, pushy and blatant. That’s okay, though; Brad’s in the mood to be scared.

Fick leans in as he passes the cigarette back. “You think you could do it?” he says quietly. His breath tickles Brad’s ear. 

Brad shoots back, “I'm not such a pussy I couldn't take it up the ass.” 

Fick grins in his peripheral vision, and Brad realizes that he's given himself away. Couldn't, not can't. If they--if Fick--he'll be the first. 

There was a first time he'd edged the speedometer to 150, too; a first time he'd had his hands bound and been pushed into the water. He wonders if this'll be like that, something that he grows to love, to need. He wonders if that's what scares him. 

Brad takes a last drag, lets his lips go loose and plush around the cigarette, lets Fick see him do it. He says, “Call us a cab.” 

***

Inside Brad’s place Fick pushes Brad up against the door. Brad instinctively goes to block him, and they fall into the same tussle Brad’s had with dozens of other men, pulling his hits just a little. He's never tested himself against Fick, though. 

Fick is good for an officer, Brad thinks, and Fick takes advantage of his surprise to get under Brad’s defenses and throw him bodily to the floor, landing on top of him, his knees on either side of Brad’s hips and his hands around Brad’s wrists. 

“Well done, sir,” Brad says. 

Fick says, “Call me Nate.” The gleam in his eyes is predatory and his muscles are tight like a cat waiting to spring. It's like being pinned by a panther. 

When Brad doesn't say anything, Fick tightens his grip around Brad’s wrists and grinds his hips down over Brad’s cock. Brad’s getting hard, the way he does when he's speeding, the way he does in combat. 

“ _Call me Nate,_ ” Fick says again, and Brad struggles just enough to feel well and truly caught. 

“Please,” he says finally, not even knowing what he's asking for. “Nate.” 

Nate grins like a shark and dismounts, but he keeps a hand on Brad and uses it to drag him down the hallway. 

Once they reach the bedroom, Nate pushes him onto the bed. 

Brad finds it agreeable to be pushed. He opens his own jeans so he can get a hand on himself and hits the bedside light so he can watch Nate strip off his own t-shirt. He’s all farmer’s tan and long muscles, and Brad stares and forgets what he was doing.

Nate helps by grabbing the waistband of Brad’s jeans and boxers together, and yanking so hard Brad thinks he might get rug burn. “Get rid of your shirt,” he says, and together they get Brad naked. 

He doesn't have much modesty left at this point, so it's weird to feel pinned under Nate’s gaze, to resist the urge to cover his erection with his hands. Nate is breathing hard and fumbling at his own belt. 

Brad turns to reach for the nightstand; presumably condoms are in their future, and it's an excuse to break that fever-bright gaze. As soon as he turns, though, Nate is on him. 

“Yeah, just like that,” Nate says, and with one big hand, pulls Brad’s knee up under him.

He feels vulnerable like this, exposed, his ass in the air and his face in a pillow. Nate’s belt buckle is digging into his thigh and there's hot breath on his skin just before Nate digs his teeth into Brad’s deltoid. 

“Fuck,” Brad spits out. He's not into that, he's not usually into _any_ of this, but his dick is hard and he's rocking his ass back into Nate’s hand. 

The first touch of Nate’s thumb to his asshole makes him jolt, but Nate just switches to rubbing along his perineum. “You're fine,” he says. “Do you have lube?” 

Brad's usually good at splitting his attention, so there's no reason he shouldn't be able to fish one tube out of a drawer while Nate is touching him, but all of a sudden Nate presses hard and there's a jolt of something electric inside Brad. The tube falls on the floor. 

Nate stops. They both kind of peer over the edge of the bed, and Nate breathes out a laugh. “Give me a second,” he says, and gets off Brad. 

Brad watches as Nate drops his jeans, revealing a cock that's smaller than Brad’s own but still seems like a ridiculous size for something that’s going to go inside him. 

Having retrieved the lube, Nate crawls back over Brad, dropping his weight on him like before and curling a hand around his side to stroke briefly over Brad’s cock. Brad rocks his hips a little, getting used to the weight and the hand and the hard dick poking him in the ass. 

Nate hums with satisfaction and withdraws his hand. He slaps Brad’s ass, once. “All right,” he says, “let's do this.” 

Fingers in his ass give him a _whoa, unexpected_ response that verges on panic, but Brad leans into the feeling, moving, trying to get _more_ instead of _away_. He's panting now, harsh breaths that edge over into vocalizations once or twice. 

Nate sets his teeth along the tendon in Brad’s neck and scrapes, a hard counterpoint to the liquid feeling gathering inside him. 

It's a lot, almost too much, and just as Brad thinks he's getting used to it Nate presses on something that makes that jolt hit him again. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Brad says with feeling. 

“Tell me when,” Nate whispers harshly, and applies himself to driving Brad insane with his fingers, scissoring them and then nudging up against that spot. It's good, it's so fucking good. Brad tries to stretch his bent leg up even higher, tries to grind back onto Nate’s fingers and forward into the bedspread. 

“You fucking tell me when,” Brad gasps out, because he wants to be swept under, wants to let Nate take him. 

Nate grinds his cock into the side of Brad’s hip, and it feels--good, it feels _inevitable_. 

“Fuck, you’re so--,” Nate whispers. “All right, I'll take you there.” 

He works those long delicate fingers inside Brad, drags his lips and teeth and tongue along Brad's neck, and Brad lets himself sink into the sensations. 

His hips push back, as much as they can with the limited leverage he has, and Nate encourages it, lets Brad rock and fuck himself on Nate’s fingers, lets him ask for more with the movements of his body. 

Brad realizes he's making a noise, somewhere between a whimper and a gut-punch. 

Nate bites his earlobe. “All right,” he says. “I won't make you beg.” 

(Nate could; he could put Brad on his knees and make him beg. Brad wants that, too.)

When Nate pulls away, Brad comes back to himself just long enough to take a couple of deep breaths and clock the familiar crinkling sound of a condom wrapper. It's weird, to hear that and not feel it in his hand, not ready himself for the next step of putting it on. It throws him off balance again, and he lets the uneasy feeling tip over and dump another flood of adrenaline into his system. 

And then Nate’s back, touching him _everywhere_ , pushing his cock into Brad in a slow smooth motion that makes tears come to Brad's eyes with its intensity and control. 

And then Nate is in him, inside him, and Brad is making those sounds again and pushing back, and Nate is scraping stubble against Brad's skin and fucking him _hard_ , and somehow getting a hand on Brad's cock, and Brad . . . goes somewhere, whites out or something as he comes. 

He stays there as Nate rides him down into the bed, uncontrolled now. The feeling tips from _good_ to _too fucking good_ to _never too much_. And all Brad can do is keep making those wordless sounds as Nate digs his fingers into Brad’s skin and snaps his hips and presses his teeth into Brad’s shoulder.

Nate grunts low when he comes, pants harshly into the crook of Brad’s neck as he works himself through his own orgasm. His breaths slow as his body goes from rigid to boneless and comfortingly heavy. Brad could stay like this forever, holy shit. 

The feeling fades soon, though: as Brad comes down from the adrenaline rush, the feeling of bliss shrinks and sinks down into the pit of his stomach, coalescing into something like guilt. He’s back to Earth now, lying in a puddle of his own come with a corner of the fitted sheet off the mattress and wrapped around his left foot. He becomes very aware that Nate is still on him, in him. Brad can feel himself tense up. 

Nate must feel him tense too. “Hold on.” 

“I’m not--” Brad breaks off as Nate pulls out. Not the greatest feeling. Brad resists the urge to hide his face in the pillow. 

He doesn’t--he doesn’t know what to do with himself, even how to arrange his body. He extends his bent leg again, wincing at the promise of hip flexor pain tomorrow, but--does he roll over, present his face and his vulnerable softness to Nate? Is he the little spoon? 

Doesn’t really want Nate staying, but then again, he thinks that kicking him out will make Brad look weak. Because that’s how this started, wondering if Brad was man enough to take it. And Brad is, all right? 

He turns his head.

Nate’s just getting up from the bed, watching him, paused with the condom half-off. 

Brad takes a breath and forces himself calm, makes himself lie on his back with one arm crooked above his head, stretched out on display. He meets Nate’s eyes. “Get the lights on your way back,” he says. 

Nate blinks and gives him a look like _you’re not fooling anybody, Sergeant_ , but inclines his head in silent assent anyway.

Nate clicks off the light and settles in next to Brad in a way that's half casual and half calling Brad's bluff. Brad has had his discomfort with proximity to other men entirely quashed due to years in the Corps, though, and this warm skin and male scent should be no different. He closes his eyes. 

Just as he's drifting off, he feels Nate shift. 

“Seriously,” Nate says from just above him, in the dark, “you okay?” 

Brad considers. “Ask me tomorrow,” he says, and Nate must take this as the concession it is, because he doesn’t push. 

He doesn't move either, though. “Are you going to flip out if I kiss you?” 

Nate’s body is warm and firm under Brad's hand, and the close-shorn hair at the back of his head has the same palm-prickle of his own. Brad pulls, and Nate’s mouth meets his in a hard brief kiss, like the punctuation to this night's events. 

“Night,” Brad says quietly, and Nate lies back down. 

***

Brad sleeps hard and dreams of swimming down into the ocean where it’s dark and quiet. When he wakes up Nate is still in his bed, snoring in the sunlight with one foot sticking out from under the covers. 

Brad--Brad wants to touch him, so he does, he slides one hand down Nate’s torso and palms the side of his hip. He closes his eyes again and drifts off.

Neither of them is the little spoon.


End file.
